Tea before bed

Nov 29

2024/11/28

I have been writing poetry in the bathtub since the age of thirteen. I have also written poetry in the lockers, on the bus, on the toilet, in between.

In the midst of heightened feelings have I written the most beautifully. I have written for years.

Though, lately I feel as if I’ve seen enough, and heard enough.

rikka n i being stand off ish at the karaoke

My problems do not thrill me anymore, they weigh and worry me - payment, delays, communication. The scale doesn’t tilt to either the world or my little life.

I feel disillusioned at times, but I know this perceived mundanity that settles over everything in my life is truly the result of painstaking care.

For most of my life I have wished to be the best. Nowadays, I am relieved to never have to bear such expectations, for I know that this boredom, this peace is fragile - there are no nauseating ups, there are no sudden downs. I hope to say that I have worked hard to earn this silence.

the very hungry caterpillar is a huge inspo recently

Despite all the art I have treasured proudly, I have to come clean about how I threw out dozens of paintings from when I was 17, 18, when I was cleaning the basement out with my dad. Perhaps some of my most philosophical, assaulting work. I did not have the strength to look at it. I was stronger back then, to have the capacity to feel weak and push through with the discomfort of being small and helpless.

lemon and poppy seed goat soap from a friendly farm in vermont

They were big, rolled up, and there were so many colors. They meant more to me than the work I do now. They were raw, cruel, provocative - so different from my current mellow and delicate work.

They were a lifeline: nudes of men I knew, my family, the gentleness I sought out from adulthood, a stinging pain of wanting to leave, to disappear, to run really fast and really far. I have a few pictures of them, but even those I don’t dare look at, in fear of feeling something I don’t want to feel.

But they’re gone now. I will never look at them again. I will forget what they looked like, but I will never forget the time I felt painting them.

The person I am now wants to say that I have outgrown the pain, that I am better, that I am good, but I owe a lot to that younger version of myself who did the work of being ashamed, blood on my hands, of saying god this is not what I have asked for and I cannot take it anymore.

If it wasn’t for the patience I had (I wasn’t even aware), I would not be as clean and as honest today.

I endured, I endured, and I am free.

So, I threw those paintings out with the conclusion that the works are ephemeral, but I will grieve for the me that wanted to leave, and I will remember him for his efforts of erasing the trauma for me today.

I have done and I have seen, so I want to stay home and enjoy my cup of tea before bed. It is that simple. I no longer need to dig, I no longer am owed, I no longer need to forgive. No longer any blood, no longer any bathroom floor. I have nothing else left to do but enjoy the passage of time.

the bf and i in a train station mirror. idk why they have those up

I have kept all of my journals, and my devices are home to scattered entries and undone poems - from time to time, I pay a visit to those words from 16, 17, 18.

Sometimes, I feel like I need to sacrifice all of my relationships to be where I want to be in my artistic career. Sometimes, that belief hangs over me like a crow flying over decay, like it’s just moments before I throw everything away and isolate until “completion”. I know better, though, I know that this love that we have all cultivated together, that I have the luck to bask in, is the result of hard work. We are all just tiny, minutious ants industriously building our lives, because it is essential to share our hopes and dreams with each other - who knows, you might learn something, you might be directed North.

I just hope my friends will get used to my small absences. I cannot be myself if I do not create, and I cannot create sincerely if I am not alone. When my mind is fecund, I would rather not leave my kitchen (my studio - the table is my desk, the floor is also my desk). They understood that I love them, but also how truly heavy the belly of my mind is, ready to burst.

If I don’t sit and write, or read, or draw and paint and list, it will inevitably come after my temper first, and then I will not get out of bed, and then I will quit my job.

I thought for a while that I was cursed with something, spiritually. Turns out, I am not depressed, I am just dramatic when it comes to creation. It’s a release. Me, who is so routinely, so diligent, so domestic, I often find myself being a pathetic, whining fool (my poor boyfriend who has the patience to deal with me!) when I am not inspired. I get so restless and irrationally frustrated.

Time and time again, I have tried to list, to categorize, to schedule my creative bursts, but I just need to let them come and go. I never like to force a creative block to undo itself. I need to ride the wave - creativity is alive, it needs to rest before it rises, and it needs to inhale before it exhales. It is the same as bread: you let the yeast rise, then you bake, then you slice it and butter it and eat it, then you feed the starter to hopefully start again another day. It’s a cycle, so I know it will return, and here today I learn to be patient with it.

Though it is against my nature not to rationalize and organize and budget my good ideas, I do my best to not scare inspiration away. When it comes though, I need to shut the fuck up. My creativity is like a cat, I need to sensibly read its body language or it will fearfully turn back and disappear behind an alley. That’s why I prefer to focus and abandon my social life for a while, and I sincerely hope that you can understand my recurring absences.

Of course, everytime the creative wave dies down, it feels like I am going to slowly wither and become a blank page myself. I fear that it will never come back - perhaps that is why so many artists have gone mad.

Lately, I feel far from that anxiety, though. I love this domesticity, this well-deserved calmness, no ceiling lights, no noise.

My heart is heavy with love like a wet, soapy rag. My bed is done, and the kitchen is in order, and the house is warm, and the door is locked. I only see the absence of fear: how strange and light I feel!

I exist for no other reason than the fact that I was born. At last, I am free, and I am young forever.

I read Blue Horses in a fragrant tub. There are damp footprints stamped before the fridge. I can hear the sighs of my love, fast asleep. For the first time, November you are kind. I have made the wrong choices every year, but for my 22nd November, I have done right by me. I have nothing to hide, nothing to beg for. I am elated to live another day. There is nothing more that I need than a soak and a few written words, and without fault, tea before bed.

My current bedtime rotation is: peppermint vanilla, blood orange rooibos, peach and apricot, and a Quebecois boreal mix with Labrador tea.

That is all.

Warmly, Mimi

Exit Number Five

Tea before bed

My cousin’s house

I think of my dad all the time